


we got our own sense of time

by beverlymarshian



Series: Derry Thrift AU [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bottom Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, oh to fuck the person you love on the couch in your childhood home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beverlymarshian/pseuds/beverlymarshian
Summary: He wants to talk. He does. But his body is thrumming to the beat of the words I love you and he sees the words from his phone screen every time his eyes close. The words are on the tip of his tongue ready to spill over again and again, to tell Richie a thousand times, an apology for the time he has wasted and a prayer for the future. Mostly, however, he wants to fuck him on the couch.A companion fic for the Derry Thrift SMAU, between updates 349 and 350.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Derry Thrift AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766974
Comments: 11
Kudos: 206





	we got our own sense of time

Eddie drops his phone into his pocket, hands trembling as he turns the locks, the second deadbolt, the third, on a house designed to keep people in, not out. He opens the door abruptly, forgetting the chain lock, and the door rattles. He swears, loud, harsh, and slams the door shut again. He can hear Richie laughing from the other side, goofy and high-pitched, and Eddie steadies himself as he yanks the gold chain from the track and pulls the door open again. It swings wide and he steps back just enough that he doesn’t catch himself on it.

And there’s Richie. Richie, still pulling himself up from the ground, a hand reaching back to brush off the back of his jeans, these ones washed light, holes in the knees and thighs like he’s ten years younger than he is, coarse dark hair curling between the white frayed edges of the tears. Richie, with his hair neat for once, like maybe he ran a brush through it on the way, that he fussed with it like he sometimes does in the mirror in the morning. Richie, wearing a shirt that is definitely not his, a dark, tasteful button up, tucked into his jeans, vertical stripes running down its length. Richie with blue-purple circles under his eyes and a single crease skating across his forehead and a smile big enough to steal the breath from Eddie’s throat.

"Hi," Richie says, softly, words eeking out between his bared teeth, his curved lips.

"I love you. I love you," Eddie repeats, a mantra, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can hold them back, words that were on the tips of his fingers every time he looked at his phone this week, maybe longer.

And if Richie's smile wasn't large enough before, it certainly is now. Wrinkly fissures spread from the corners of his eyes, the sides of his nose. The crease in his forehead deepens. Eddie wants to press his lips there, next to Richie's eyes, along every line in his face. He can.

"I love you too," Richie says. "Sure gave me a three-day heart attack, though."

Eddie knows he’s joking, can see it in his eyes and the way he leans further over the threshold, but Eddie also knows he’s right. “Richie. Richie. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Good!” he says cheerily, undeterred. "I expect grovelling. And an explanation.”

“Anything.” Eddie means it.

Richie's smile slips a little, eyes softening, gaze shifting from something piercing to something studying, something careful. He must find what he is looking for because he steps over the threshold, through the door Eddie swung open too wide, crowding Eddie's space. He raises his hands slowly, cutting through the air between them. One slips behind Eddie's neck, one around his cheek, fingertips in his hair. Their bodies are close, not touching except where Richie cradles his face. He can smell Richie, a little bit like old clothes but mostly like his body wash—shockingly tasteful, layers of sandalwood and vanilla that became synonymous with Richie, that made Eddie's chest tighten automatically, such that using Richie's shower became an exercise in emotional restraint. Richie smiles down at him, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. Eddie eyes eyes track the movement.

With the lightest tug, Richie closes the space between them, lips slipping together so effortlessly it was like they never parted, like the last hungry, heavy kiss in Eddie's truck after the fair wasn't days ago but moments. This kiss is sweeter, gentler. Richie's scratchy jawline brushes against his, their noses bump, and the kiss feels a little like their first, like maybe the first time they have ever really kissed. 

Richie sucks his lower lip between his teeth, the barest bite, and Eddie groans into his mouth. His hands land on Richie's chest, sliding over his pecs in the tight shirt, up to his shoulders. He leans forward onto the balls of his feet, pushing higher into the kiss, knocking their teeth together for a moment and pulling a soft huff of laughter out of Richie. Eddie finally slips his hands around Richie's neck and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue into Richie's mouth. He tastes like the milky coffees he drinks with enough sugar to rot his teeth and Eddie loves it. He missed him. He thinks he could kiss him forever now, if Richie would let him.

They stumble further into the house, Richie kicking the door closed behind them. It rattles in its frame from the force, making them both jerk apart. Richie whips his head back around to stare guiltily at the door, jarring Eddie's hands from his neck, before turning back with a grin. He drags his thumb slowly over Eddie's bottom lip, a little tender, moist.

"Do you want to talk?" Eddie asks.

He wants to talk. He does. But his body is thrumming to the beat of the words _I love you_ and he sees the words from his phone screen every time his eyes close. The words are on the tip of his tongue ready to spill over again and again, to tell Richie a thousand times, an apology for the time he has wasted and a prayer for the future. He wants to tell him he loves him everywhere, even in this house, but especially other places—in the thrift store, at the movies, crowded around a busy table at the Neibolt. He wants to take him back to New York on the promised vacation and kiss him wherever people kiss in New York in the movies, wherever Richie wants. He wants to kiss him at the top of the Empire State Building and in Central Park and in Times Square and in all the smaller places he never enjoyed. He wants it all. He also quite desperately wants to say it to him with less layers of clothing between their bodies.

"I do," Richie says, voice low. A shiver laces down Eddie's spine. "And we will. But you just told me you loved me back and I kinda want you to blow my back out."

"That can be arranged," Eddie manages to squeak out, barely suppressing the other sound, desperate and needy, that rises in his throat.

"Where do you want me, your childhood bedroom or mama Kaspbrak's love lair?"

Eddie shoves him at that, hands flat on his chest, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a laugh. Richie teeters backwards but doesn't move, and _god_ he's so big. Not that Eddie could ever have forgotten, but hands trembling, chest ready to burst, every second after the _I love you_ feels a little like he is seeing Richie for the first time again. His large hands slide around Eddie's wrists and pull their bodies close again.

"Nowhere if you keep talking," Eddie says, bringing their mouths back together. Richie laughs against his lips.

They stay there, pressed together in the hall for longer than they should. Eddie brings his hands back up to Richie's face, shaking out of his grip. He trails his fingers along his scratchy jaw, then behind the soft curve of his ear, resting his fingers in the curls at the nape of Richie's neck. Their kiss is deeper now, hungrier, filled with intention and desire. Their tongues slide together slowly until Richie doesn't taste like anything except himself. Richie's hands rest on the small of Eddie's back, slipping under the hem of his threadbare shirt. He rests his thumbs in the divots of Eddie's back and slips his fingers underneath the band of his soft cotton shorts.

"My my, Mr. Kaspbrak, what have we here?" Richie mumbles, still against his lips, as his hands dip further below the waistband, skin meeting skin immediately. Eddie flushes up from his neck, crawling over his cheeks.

Richie slides his hands down, palming over his bare ass, skin burning where they touch. Richie always runs so warm and every touch feels like fucking fire. Eddie moans into his mouth and bucks forward, half-hard and well on his way to more. Richie breaks their mouths apart and Eddie breathes out something close to a whine, before his lips return to his cheek. Richie mouths hot, wet kisses over his jaw, down along his neck, biting gently as he goes. His hands slip further down Eddie's ass, hooking under his thighs. Before Eddie realizes what is happening, Richie's hands tighten, gripping his thighs, and hoists Eddie into the air.

"Fuck—" Eddie gasps, gripping Richie's neck too tightly, but Richie just laughs against his neck, a thrumming vibration that crawls down his spine.

It's an unfamiliar feeling, being lifted, hands gripping his thighs. It passes almost as a crawl, the initial lift, the jerk in his stomach, the brief panic, but then his knees slide past Richie's waist and he locks his ankles behind his body. It was like being on the little ride at the Fair that Richie laughed when he called a rollercoaster. The fear and then the euphoria, losing gravity. He holds tight onto Richie and laughs and laughs when Richie steadies his stance, hands still gripping Eddie tightly.

When they settle, Richie's grip eases, sturdy but gentle. Their chests press together in a long line of heat. Eddie thinks he's squeezing too tightly around Richie's waist but he wants to feel every solid line of him. Richie buries his face in his neck, smiling against him. Eddie should be scared, worried about being up here, about Richie's grip slipping or about fucking up Richie’s back _._ Instead he feels safe. He feels held. This is love, he thinks wildly. This is loving and being loved in return.

"God, I love you," Richie murmurs against his skin like he can hear him, and the words send a line of goosebumps across his shoulder, down his back.

"I love you," Eddie says, voice thick, teetering on the edge between arousal and emotion.

He tugs the hair at the nape of Richie's neck to tilt his head back, using the brief height advantage for as long as he has it. When Richie's head falls back, neck bared, his eyes are brighter blue than before, deep swirling pools, cerulean like the sky, like the chipping paint of the duck pond game at the fair, like the rippling water of the quarry. They too are rippling, surface shining with tears. Eddie laughs instead of kissing him.

"Please don't cry when I'm about to fuck you," Eddie asks, trying to tease but voice coming out kind, tender.

He leans down to press their lips together, chaste, quick, and pulls away to look at Richie. The tears welled in the corners of his eyes now slip down his face, two matching lines, sliding parallel to his glasses, into his hair. Eddie laughs again, hands shaking a little as he raises them to Richie's face, brushing away at the wet trails, chasing the tears.

"Some people are into that," Richie says, voice unsteady, tears still welling in his eyes.

"I'm into you."

Eddie brings their mouths together again, this time mouth open, greedy, hands framing Richie's face, gripping his jaw. Richie moans against his tongue as he licks first past his lips, then behind his teeth, then deeper, fucking Richie's mouth with his tongue. He can feel Richie through his jeans, the swell of his cock right below Eddie's ass. He groans back into his mouth.

Eddie pulls away and Richie tries to chase his mouth. Eddie pulls farther and nods his head towards the empty living room. "Couch."

The responding nod is dazed, Richie's eyes glazed over now. His hands slide carefully up from Eddie's ass to slide around his waist, securing him, before they start to move. Eddie laughs as they do, squeezing nervously at Richie's neck when Richie pretends to totter, then again when Richie starts moving too quickly on purpose.

The only sound in the room is their laughter as they tumble towards the couch, hands roving over each other's bodies. Eddie's stomach is light and he is almost dizzy, from being carried, from the joy, from the feeling of Richie's hands on his body. He never knew he could miss someone like this, someone he hadn't been apart from for even four days. _Touch starved_ is his first thought, but it isn't strong enough, it doesn't encapsulate the loss he felt, the gap, the one _he_ widened. Richie's lips on his and his hands on his skin felt like a drink of water in an endless dusty desert.

Richie's knees hit the couch and he falls back, his grip on Eddie tightening for a moment before they hit the couch together, bouncing a bit. Eddie shifts until his knees frame Richie's body, groins pressed together. He rests his weight back on Richie's thighs, trying to feel as much of him as possible despite the _too much fucking clothing_ between them.

Eddie leans back for a moment, long enough to snake his hands down to Richie's waist, tugging the dark blue shirt from his jeans, hands darting to the buttons. He makes quick work of the shirt while Richie leans back against the couch, mouth open, panting softly. His cheeks are smattered red and when Eddie gets the shirt open he follows the colour with his eyes, down Richie's neck, over his chest, down his stomach, below the line of his jeans, all a pretty pink flush that he wants to chase with his hands, his tongue.

He pushes the shirt over Richie's shoulders, hands skating across every inch of skin as it is uncovered, over the broad shoulders, down his arms, biceps lightly toned from work but more than strong enough to lift Eddie. Richie's hands finally slip out from his shorts to tug at the hem of Eddie's shirt, pulling it over his head in one easy move and tossing it farther than necessary.

Richie reaches for him again, large hands wrapping around his narrow waist, pulling Eddie further into his lap until their groins press together. Eddie is tenting his shorts, cock pulling freely up in the baggy material, flush against Richie's soft middle now. Richie strains in his jeans, bulging in the tight denim. Eddie grinds down, rubbing against Richie's stomach and then further down still, cocks rubbing together through too many layers, sending a spike of pleasure through his body.

"Fuck, Rich, I missed you so much," he groans, unbidden, as Richie's hands slip back into his shorts, squeezing his ass, pulling him closer.

"Don't even get me started, baby," Richie pants out, voice high, strained.

Eddie grinds his hips down again, pulling a long groan from Richie, head dropping against the back of the couch. His long, thick neck exposed, lightly tanned from their long sunny weekend outside, a little sunburnt at the nape from the day they spent on ferris wheels and playing carnival games until they were too exhausted to do anything but meander to Richie's show, Richie’s arm slung over his shoulder.

He ducks his head down, missing Richie's lips to press along his rough jawline, lips tingling from the scrape of the stubble. He follows the line of his jaw until he gets to Richie's ear, sucking the soft lobe into his mouth and biting down. Richie's grip tightens on his ass, bucking under him, and he swears loudly. Eddie breaks away to brush his lips over the shell of his ear, the barest touch.

Eddie drops his head further, mouthing along the column of his neck. He stops to suck hard under his ear, biting and tonguing at the spot until Richie's tenuous self-control shatters, until he grinds hard up into him. Eddie bears his hips down, movements harsh and jerky, the slide too rough with the denim in the way but _good, firm, Richie_. He mouths further down, to the junction of Richie's neck, and bites down again until the skin under his mouth is slick and the mottled red of burst capillaries and possession, matching the one along his jaw.

"Fuck, I'm going to come in my pants if we keep this up," Richie gasps, pulling Eddie hips down hard to grind up against him.

"Don't you fucking dare," Eddie growls, pulling away quick, swatting Richie across his chest a little as he leans away.

When Richie pulls his head back up, slow and heavy, Eddie's breath catches in his throat. His hair is messy now, kinked in too many directions, frizzy, laying damp against his forehead. His pupils are blown out, lips slick, mouth still open as he breathes heavily. _Beautiful_ , Eddie thinks.

He slides back on Richie's thighs to palm at the front of his jeans, flicking the button open and tugging the zipper down carefully, revealing Richie's patterned boxers, little animated burgers smiling up at Eddie. He snorts softly before running a thumb over the clothed length, drawing another breathy moan from Richie.

"You're so beautiful, sweetheart," Eddie says, endearment falling from his mouth, something that has been on the tip of his tongue for weeks, since they started, since _before_ they started, something he couldn't let himself say. The sound that falls from Richie's mouth is almost a plea, a desperate little sound, voice cracked.

"Eddie, _please_ ," he begs.

"Please what, _sweetheart_?" he says, teasing this time, but Richie reacts the same, hips canting up. Eddie slips his hand further into his pants, angle awkward, taking more of Richie in his hand, squeezing him where he strains against his boxer-briefs.

Richie doesn't answer for a moment, instead head dropping back again as Eddie touches him through the thin fabric of the underwear, rubbing along the length until he reaches the head of his cock, the outline of it making Eddie's mouth water. The fabric there is darkened, dampness spreading. He squeezes, fingers wrapping around Richie through the fabric, and slowly strokes him. Richie writhes beneath him, blunt nails digging into Eddie's skin, doubtlessly leaving little red crescents. Eddie hopes they stay, hopes the marks on Richie's neck will last days, hopes that before he leaves for the shortest possible time to New York to tie up loose ends he can leave some that last the whole trip, on his neck, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, anywhere he can reach.

"Tell me what you want," Eddie says, voice dipping lower, more commanding. The way he knows Richie loves, the way _he_ loves now, because he feels in control, because of how it makes Richie unravel under his hands, under his mouth.

Richie’s hands stutter against his skin, flexing then tightening again, a shiver climbing through his body. His eyes are hooded, hazy with desire. Richie mumbles something, words tumbling out of his mouth too fast, blurred together, a jumble of vowels. Eddie squeezes him, stroking firmer, and brings his free hand up to Richie’s jaw.

“What was that, baby?”

Richie shivers, eyes shifting from hazy to glassy, biting down on his lip. “Fuck, you’re really gonna break _baby_ out on me? Now? I’m fragile, pumpkin.”

“Wanted to before,” Eddie says. He palms at the widening damp spot on Richie’s underwear, cotton shifting from smokey grey to carbon, sticky under his fingers. Richie squirms. “I was pretending to be casual.”

“Fuck, well you were certainly more believable than me,” Richie says, hips jerking up again, almost grinding against Eddie’s palm. Eddie twists his wrist into another odd angle, finding the flap on the front of the boxers, and he slips his fingers in until they meet skin, damp, pulled taut. Richie arches against his hand, “ _F-fuck_ , Eddie, please.”

“Words, baby,” Eddie says, drawing the word out this time as he fists Richie slowly, fingers sliding up his length, hand trapped in his boxers. He drags his thumb over the head, precome oozing, slippery, easing the drag of his palm.

“Pl- _nng_ ,” Richie starts, words bleeding into a groan when Eddie quickens his pace. “God, Eddie, fuck me, please.”

Eddie’s hand stutters, the desperate, keening _please_ , the request, how Richie’s eyes are screwed shut and his lips parted, damp from his heavy, moist pants, how sweat beads on his forehead and neck, in the humid little living room, the rest of his skin a gentle sheen just waiting for the surface tension to break. Richie. His Richie.

He pulls his hand from Richie’s pants and gets a resounding whine, Richie’s eyes flying open and a pout settling over his lips. Eddie laughs, breathless, and shushes him, sliding back off Richie’s thighs. His knees wobble as he stands, legs weak from the crouching and the slide of their lips, weak from the confessions from both of them, even from how _brave_ Richie was and how _scared_ he must have been, how Eddie scared him. Richie just smiles up at him.

“Pants off,” Eddie says.

Richie wastes no time lifting his lips from the couch, thumbs crooked in his waistband, pulling the jeans down first. The denim slides past miles of skin and hair, curly black coarse hair on the tops and outsides of Richie’s thighs, sparser closer to his inner thighs, crawling and thickening on his shins. Eddie’s eyes slide over every new patch until Richie kicks off his shoes, shaking his legs out of his jeans. He leaves his socks on, and smiles goofily at Eddie, before curling his fingers in his underwear and pulling them down in another quick, smooth motion.

Richie’s cock springs free, red-purple, another pearl of precome at the tip, so hard it brushes against Richie’s stomach as he moves, dampening the hair there. Eddie’s mouth waters and if Richie hadn’t asked so nicely to be fucked he might have dropped to his knees there, on the seafoam green carpet, hands spreading Richie’s thighs open to take him apart in his mouth.

Instead he turns to the coffee table, organized neatly into the little aspects of his life he brought with him. His wallet, his keys, his laptop, a glass of water, tissues, a lightly worn, spine-cracked copy of _Maurice_ with thumbed pages that felt almost velvety in their age, which Richie had bought for him from the store, calling it a _cornerstone of gay literature_ and then on the head of a pin shifting to making a crude joke with Patty at Stan’s expense, like this simple act of duality wasn’t meant to charm Eddie so thoroughly he didn’t quite believe Richie was real. His eyes landed instead on the lube, on the lower level of the table, tucked discreetly in the column behind the table’s leg.

As he reaches for the bottle a thought hits him like a glass of cold water to the face. “Fucking. Condoms. I don’t have them.”

He pivots around to stare at Richie and both his annoyance and his breath catches in his throat. Richie is spread out on the couch now, head resting on the arm rest. His right leg dangles from the couch, socked foot on the floor, and his left knee is bent and flush against the back of the couch. His head lolls to the side as he strokes himself, long fingers wrapping his cock in slow, lazy pulls, eyes hooded and fixed on Eddie.

“Don’t discount the quality of some _I love you_ head,” Richie says, a cheshire grin spreading across his lips.

Eddie, impatient, annoyed at himself, although he never intended them to be doing this here, in this house. “I mean, I’m clean. Three month recommended testing, you know. And you’re the only person I’ve slept with in years.”

He thinks for a moment this is the wrong thing to say, that his eagerness has got the best of him, because Richie’s hand stills on his cock, his head jerks up, neck stiff, flush darkening on his cheeks. It takes until a moment before Richie speaks for Eddie to realize it’s quite the opposite.

“You-you’d want to-“ Richie stammers out.

Outside of here, their moments of togetherness, Richie is bold and loud, often crass, unafraid to say anything that comes to mind often to Eddie’s floundering embarrassment. He knows that Richie, _loves_ that Richie, something blooming and consuming he didn’t know he could feel about another person, had certainly never felt about Myra. He also loves this Richie, still chatty but with the edge taken out of his voice, the brashness dashed, vulnerability lacing every word. Eddie leans over to curl his fingers around Richie’s jaw, his chin, and he nods. Richie swallows, throat bobbing beneath Eddie’s hand.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—yeah that’s great,” Richie says, talking too fast now, nodding eagerly. “Same I—well I mean I’ve slept with—I mean. I got tested three weeks ago. Clean as a whistle.” Eddie raises an eyebrow, amused at Richie’s squirm, noting now how his abandoned cock twitches against his stomach at the thought. 

“Sounds good to me,” Eddie says simply, and Richie groans at that, hand returning to fist around his cock, stroking faster this time.

“You’re going to kill me, Eddie.” His voice is heavy, gravelly, nothing like his usually pitchy voice, higher than you’d guess at first glance at his broad shoulders and wide chest.

“Good.”

Eddie hooks a finger on the edge of his shorts and tugs them down, catching on his cock before they drop to the floor. He steps out of them and watches as Richie’s gaze lands between his legs, mouth falling further open like a natural response to the sight. Eddie doesn’t know if he will ever get used to this, how Richie stares at him. He thought before that it would fade, that Richie would stop looking at him like it was the first time he saw the bare skin, the ridges of his abs, the narrowing of his hips, his cock nestled in dark curls. He never thought _he_ would get tired of seeing Richie like this, spread out under him, so much skin and hair and miles for Eddie’s fingers to follow, for his mouth to trace. Now he lets him think maybe neither of them ever will.

Eddie drops his right knee down onto the couch, leaving his left foot planted on the ground, and shuffles between Richie’s legs. He flicks open the bottle in his hand with a _snick_ that makes Richie’s eyes dart over, a tiny gasp catching in his throat. He slides further down on the headrest as if in response, arching his hips when Eddie drags his fingers along the tender skin of his inner thighs, then further down, stopping to squeeze and tug Richie’s balls, then further. He withdraws his hand for a moment, earning a high-pitched whine, and he laughs under his breath.

Richie’s bent knee against the couch gives him little space to work, so Eddie slips a hand under his knee, then dragging down along the hairy calf, lifting Richie’s leg until his ankle hooks on the back of the couch, spreading his legs wide for Eddie. Richie drops his head back at this, stroking himself faster, breath coming in unsteady huffs.

“Stay here for me?” Eddie asks, and Richie doesn’t make a sound, just nods and lifts his leg further, ankle falling over the back of the couch.

His dusty pink hole is bared now, low against the couch, and Eddie won’t wait another moment without his hands on Richie, fingers buried in him. He slathers his fingers generously with lube, messy, some dropping down onto his own thigh, sliding through the hair there, and Eddie ignores it, spreading the lube through his fingers, coating them, warming it for only a moment before he is drawn back to Richie, pressing first against his perineum, then lower.

He circles the rim with one finger and Richie already bucks down against him, quiet pleas falling out between pants. Eddie pushes in, less resistance than he expected, first finger slipping with ease into Richie’s heat. He fucks Richie slowly with the one finger, all easy slide, like Richie was open for him, like he had done this since their last time in the little B&B bed with the paisley-print pillow cases and the high thread count sheets. He pushes another finger in alongside the first, and it’s tighter, hotter, and Richie squirms under him.

“Have you been doing this to yourself?” Eddie asks, voice scraped raw even at the thought. 

Richie nods, eyes snapping open to meet Eddie’s. “Yeah. Yeah. Not as good as you.”

Sometimes he thinks Richie just says these things, that he doesn’t mean a flattering word he says, but here falling apart under Eddie’s hands he believes him. He had only ever done this to himself before, on this couch, angle awkward and face burning from embarrassment, that he was in his thirties and was only now finding his prostate, only now finding out that he _could_ want something, could want someone like this. Richie spread out and running hot under his hands is euphoric, a drunken feeling, head heavy with the thought of disassembling him here.

He adds a third finger when Richie’s pleas slip into something less responsive and more begging, eyes on Eddie’s asking for him, for more. Richie drops his hand from his cock, so damp against his stomach, slicking the hair there and laying it flat. Eddie’s free hand reaches to trail through it, to tease the head of his cock with a feather-light touch, and Richie lifts his hips completely from the couch in response.

“ _Please_ , Eds, come on, fuck me,” Richie asks, breathless, almost bossy, and Eddie laughs. He leans up, fingers still buried deep in Richie, pumping slowly into him, wet and open for Eddie.

He brings their lips together in a crushing kiss that is more tongue than anything, dipping into Richie’s open mouth, sliding against his own, licking back further this time—incisors, bicuspids, molars, not mapping his mouth but simply visiting a familiar place, a place Eddie thinks he would live if he could. A home.

He pulls away, self-control running low, cock unattended and aching between his legs. He pulls out of Richie too fast, making him whimper, and he whispers a quiet apology as he pours more lube into his hand, slicking himself up, head falling back as he grips his cock in quick pulls. He positions himself back between Richie’s thighs, crowding close until the head of his cock brushes over his hole.

He wipes his sticky hand on Richie’s stomach, earning a _gross_ from Richie and a soft laugh. Richie stops laughing when Eddie wraps his hand under Richie’s left knee, lifting his leg from the floor, holding Richie up a little. Not as strong as Richie, but strong enough to hold him open like this, keep him spread. He lines himself up and meets Richie’s gaze as he pushes in.

“God, _fuck_ , Eds,” Richie gasps, words almost lost among breathy sounds. Eddie grits his teeth and slides in further, still slow, for his sake as much as Richie’s.

He keeps one foot on the floor for leverage and sits high, supported by the knee dipping into the couch cushions. His hands grip both of Richie’s legs now with almost bruising intensity, keeping him pinned open, his hips high. Eddie bottoms out with a deep, guttural sound pulling from his own throat.

“ _Please_ , just give it to me,” Richie babbles, eyes wide and frenzied, hips bucking down against Eddie.

“Impatient.”

Richie nods. “Missed it. Missed you.”

“Want it to be good, sweetheart,” Eddie finds himself almost whispering, even as he pulls out a little to slide back in. Richie rocks his hips with the motion, pulling matching groans from both of them.

“Always good, Eds. Always so good. Just give it to me.”

Eddie snaps at that, pulling out and sliding back into Richie, harder than he intends, too fast, but Richie’s head lolls back onto the armrest again and Eddie takes that as a good sign. He fucks into him harder now, the tight wet heat sucking him back in every time he pulls away, Richie’s hips canting rhythmless back against him. Richie’s hands grip his own thighs, fingers brushing Eddie’s, holding himself open, wider, before dropping a hand down to the side and lifting his hips off the couch completely.

Eddie adjusts his angle and keeps Richie’s hips suspended, _holding him_ this time, fucking him even deeper, drawing harsh and gasping sounds from Richie. Suspended now, Eddie’s grip tight, Richie’s arms stretched between their bodies, skating over Eddie’s stomach, his chest, blindly teasing his nipples and then sliding over his arms, like Richie just wants to feel him there, to touch every patch of skin.

Richie’s breathing is lower, louder, endless mumbling lost now in his gasps, only a hard yelp escaping when Eddie adjusts his angle once more. “ _Fuck_ , there, _please_.”

He fucks him hard, hips pistoning, less control and more desperation now as he feels the heat rise in his face, low in his stomach, stirring with Richie tight and hot around his cock and flushed and beautiful under his hands, just falling apart for him. Only for him.

“Not going to last,” Eddie grits out shifting Richie’s hips higher again, back screaming at him to _stop_ lifting Richie but he couldn’t possibly care about that.

“Come inside me?” Richie asks, barely a whisper, and Eddie nearly does right there, has to still his hips to stop from shooting off. Richie’s eyes snap open and a smile crawls across his lips, red and slick and swollen from their kisses, from where Richie was biting down the whole time.

“You like that, don’t you?” Richie asks now, shades of his usual boldness back. “Like I’m yours.”

And he _does_ , he wants nothing more now that the idea is there in his mind, that Richie put it there, nothing more than to come buried to the hilt in Richie, to spill inside him, claim him, a streak of possessiveness that feels foreign, almost scary to him, but Richie stares up at him teasing, open, honest.

“Are you?” Eddie grits out between his teeth.

“Yeah, baby, all yours,” Richie says, voice earnest but still wrecked. 

It’s all it takes. He lifts Richie’s hips higher still, off the bed. He rotates the foot on the ground to steady himself, and he fucks Richie hard, skin slapping together, almost as loud as the sounds they make. Too loud. Eddie has always been too loud and he never worries about it with Richie, their voices climbing and scaling over each other, a cacophony in the empty house, bouncing off bare walls and echoing in the living room.

Richie takes himself in his hand, swiping at his dripping tip, hand moving fast and rough against himself. Eddie hammers into him, struggling to keep his eyes open, wanting to drink in the sight of Richie for as long as possible but also losing himself, in the heat, in the sounds, in the slap of their damp skin together, the swirling feeling in his stomach as he thinks about this, about Richie, shaking off the fear and sense of finality he has dragged behind him for days, trickling into a sense of wonder, of exploration, of future.

Richie comes first, with an exhale of Eddie’s name, a hand flying back to his hair, tugging at it himself, and Eddie watches, thick white stripes spurting up over his soft belly, his sternum, the furthest splattering against his pecs. He hammers into Richie’s body, fucking him through the orgasm, until his hips snap and he spills inside him, still shuddering around his cock. Eddie’s eyes fall shut and his grip on the world slips for a moment. It all comes down to the places where Richie’s skin burns hot against his, the fireworks bursting from the base of his spine, the quiet spent sounds of Richie’s voice mumbling sweetly _yes, Eddie, come in me, baby, please, fuck I love you_.

When he opens his eyes again, Richie’s still staring up at him, eyes hazy, lids drooping low, almost sleepy. His bright pink lips curl into a lazy smile. Eddie falls forward over him, sliding out too quickly with a hiss, but pulls himself up over Richie’s body until their foreheads press together, slipping a little from the sweat, noses bumping then slotting alongside each other. Their stomachs stick together, gooey from lube and come, and it _should_ be gross, but Eddie focusses instead on their chests moving together, on their breathing slowing in tandem. He watches, eyes crossed from the proximity, as Richie’s pupils retract, inky black giving way to rippling icy pools. He smiles against the corner of Richie’s mouth.

“I love you,” Eddie says, quiet this time, words filling the gap between their bodies.

“Can’t get enough of it now, huh?” Richie teases. “I love you.”

And he’s right. Eddie wants to say those words every moment he can. Richie said it first, and maybe it wasn’t a race, but now he feels bold, feels like maybe it’s okay for him to say it not just in the mornings or before bed, but every moment it rises to his lips. To whisper it against his back in the kitchen when Richie makes pancakes on _weekdays_ , insisting the morning ritual grounds him. To lean over during a movie when the characters on screen are finding the answers to say the words against his neck, against the shell of his ear. To say it over the table at the diner or when he touches his elbow to pass him in the thrift shop. To type the words out on his phone keyboard and hear the sound of it sending, to see the three dots pop up as he waits for the words in return. To shout it off the top of the quarry and hold his hand again as they jump.

Richie’s eyes fall closed now, his breathing slow. Eddie sits back up on his knee, legs shaking, stomach damp and slippery. He reaches back to the coffee table, plucking the box of tissues there closer, pulling more than he needs so he doesn’t have to reach twice.

“Come on, get up, it’s too messy to fall asleep like this,” Eddie says sternly, grimacing a little as he sops Richie’s stomach with tissues, down between his thighs, balling up the tissues and dropping them in a wastebasket next to the coffee table, his makeshift desk.

“Just give me a few minutes,” Richie mumbles, barely audible. “Sleepy.”

Eddie’s chest tightens. “Okay sweetheart. A few minutes.”

He watches a drowsy smile spill across Richie’s lips, twitching, staying there long after his breathing deepens and slows, eyes moving under his lids. Eddie laughs quietly, shifting Richie’s legs the rest of the way onto the couch. Eddie stays there, watching him sleep, a hand curled around his ankle until the sun pouring through the curtains ducks behind the opposite houses, until the empty room is shrouded in a tender blanket of darkness, until his own eyes slip shut, just for a few minutes, listening to Richie breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hannah Hunt, Vampire Weekend. Thanks everyone, but especially Geth @reesefinches (go read [on the earth, on sidewalks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382040/chapters/56028583) btw it's fucking transcendental), without whom I definitely could not have written this in a day. Come hang out @derrythrift and @beverlymarshian on twitter!!! Thanks!!!!


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